


as shades of evening fall

by Spineless



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post Degüello
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22083199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spineless/pseuds/Spineless
Summary: After everything's all said and done, Morse goes to visit Max, because nothing's actually said and done at all. At least he brings dinner.
Relationships: Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45





	as shades of evening fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elrhiarhodan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/gifts).



> Written as part of the Morseverse Secret Santa on tumblr even though it's... technically a new years gift now. In any case! Happy holidays elrhiarhodan and thank you @petersjakes on tumblr for putting it together!
> 
> Title taken from the lovely song at the end of Degüello. I believe the song was composed for the episode itself, so I couldn't find many details. The full lyric was "Whippoorwills are calling, now as shades of evening fall".

Morse is standing on his front step, beneath the trellis, holding a large grease-soaked newspaper packet that he keeps shifting back and forth between his hands. The sky behind him glows with the pristine blue-violet of twilight. “Hello,” he says, then grimaces like he meant to smile. He’s pale.

“Hello.” Max blinks once and holds the door open wider. “Come in.”

As he ducks his head and steps through, Morse hands him the bundle of fried fish and potatoes and newsprint. Max accepts it like a half-hearted Christmas present and follows him as he makes his way through the living room, onward to the kitchen, talking the whole time. He’s wearing the same suit from this morning. His body is taut but still moves fluidly through the space, like he’s been there many more times than just the once. Seedcake in the garden. The oil that seeps against his palms is hot.

“I tried to get away sooner, but with all that’s happened…” Morse stills in front of the cupboard above the counter with his fingers on the handle. He opens it and takes out a plate. “I thought…” He turns and takes back the fish and chips, puts the whole mess on the plate, puts the plate on the small square table in the corner. He’s only been in the house once and knows where the dishes are. Remembers where they are. His hands are shaking. Max wonders if he even realizes. Wonders when he last ate. “––at the hospital––”

There’s a bottle of vinegar in his hands. “I was discharged, you know. I didn’t escape.” 

That makes Morse stop again, stop his fiddling, nervous movements. But not for long. “No.” He meets his eyes, really meets them, but drops contact after a few seconds. “I know. I––” Then his eyes are up again, and Max knows they’re taking in the bandage against his hairline, the bruise darkening along his jaw, the spare specs he’s wearing, large, dark, worn frames.

“Morse.”

“––thought about bringing a bottle.” He scratches the back of his head, eyes cast over the plate on the table. “But you’re not supposed to drink with a concussion.” He turns to get forks from a drawer and Max lets him. 

“Did I tell you that?” He pulls out one of the two chairs and sits. “Thoughtful of you, but I don’t have a concussion, and do have plenty to drink.” He hadn’t had a drop yet today. He touches the rim of the cup of tea on the table from earlier, now cooled to an undrinkable temperature. 

Morse searches his face before handing him a fork. His eyebrows are pulled in, his frown deep, dubious. The area beneath his eyes is sunken, dark. The result of more than just a single sleepless night. He shrugs his jacket off and drapes it over the back of the chair. He sighs as he sits. Their knees touch under the table. “I just didn’t want you to have to cook.” 

Max doesn’t pull away. He watches Morse cut a chip in half with the side of his fork before spearing and eating it. The fish is crispy and salty and hot and Max hadn’t realized that he had been hungry before taking his first bite. He had eaten, something, at the hospital, something hot out of a bowl, something hot from a cup, something bread-and-buttery off a plate. But food hadn’t occurred to him since. He wonders when he would have considered it at all if Morse hadn’t dropped by. “Thank you.”

Morse chews, swallows, doesn’t look up. He cuts a piece from the filet Max had been eating, so Max takes a chip off his side of the plate. He watches him eat and recalls how he seemed after the bank robbery fiasco. Eyes wide, unfocused. His white face struck through by a red scrape like the flame of a lighter. They met eyes through a car window, some nameless PC driving him home, home to… 

The food’s gone sooner than he’d thought. Morse cuts a single chip into smaller and smaller pieces until Max finally asks, “How _did_ it all turn out? I’ve heard some, but...”

Morse spears a tiny piece, stares at the end of his fork. “What’ve you heard?”

“Box is alive. Unless––?”

“If he makes it through the night. They’re hopeful.” He’s looking at him, rests the fork on the table. 

“And that Councillor Burkitt is in custody?”

“He caved immediately.” His gaze is cast over the near-empty plate as he talks. “They even got Bottoms to retire. And that’s just in the police. The towers, all of Martyrs' Field....” He shakes his head, rubs a hand over his eyes. “The whole _thing_. It’s madness.” He won’t look up. “Everything. How far up it went. And who’s to say they won’t lock this up for fifty years, again?” Max can’t see his face. His voice has changed in those few moments. “How far they were... going to go. And you, dragged into it all. It’s m––”

“Dragged in for doing my job?” Max traces the handle of his fork, also resting on the table. 

Morse stands abruptly, jostling the table. “It never should’ve gone on like this.” He crumples up the paper and potato bits and tosses it in the bin. He makes to pick up the plate but it’s slick with oil and slides from his hands. Max watches it hit the edge of the table before clattering to the floor. It happens fast, and the noises are overloud in the house, and it sounds like doors slamming and successive gunshots. His heart is pounding in his head again, his palms are damp.

Morse’s eyes are wide. He snatches up the plate and drops it in the sink. He leans the small of his back against the edge of the counter and still won’t meet his eyes. “There was blood. On the floor, by the phone. On your glasses.” He’s almost whispering in the wake of the clamor. 

_Alive?_

_Last I checked._

Max stands. The chair scrapes against the floor. And Morse finally looks at him. But Max can’t tell what he’s seeing. If he sees _him_ , or just the marks, or if he’s seeing nothing at all, caught somewhere in a memory or recollection. 

Max swallows and doesn’t think about the times he’s seen Morse covered in blood, his own or somebody else’s. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.” They were going to kill him in the dank room they were keeping him. They were going to kill him in the back of the truck, in the middle of the yard. When he heard the shots he was certain his life was over. Morse shot, him next. Maybe in the back, hands tied in the front like poor old Binks. Taken out like a criminal, or an animal. Would their bodies end up in some building too? Morse shot. Bleeding out on a dirty concrete floor. Not like the time in that wretched house. Morse shot. Shot dead. Even if they didn’t get him, with Bright’s reinforcements flooding in, they had gotten Morse. And his life was over. 

But Morse untied him and handed him his glasses. Not dead. Not even marked. He’s standing in the middle of his kitchen, staring, anguish all across his face. Not dead. Either of them.

His wide blue eyes. “ _Max_.” 

He has no way of knowing how Morse had shouted his name over the phone. The hoarse edge of fear. The panic. The man is standing in the middle of his kitchen, he steps away from the sink, towards him, his eyes still searching. He takes a final step and then his hand is on his face, his fingers resting against the edge of the bandage and the top of his ear, the worn corner of the glasses frame. His palm is warm on his cheek. “If they’d––I’d––”

“You said you’d get me home safe. And here I am.” 

“I meant to come sooner.”

“You mentioned.” Max reaches up and covers Morse’s hand with his own. He curls their fingers together, brushes his thumb over his knuckles. “You’re here now.” He lays his other hand his against his lapels.

Morse kisses him once. “Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?”

“Why? Do you want a drink?” Max misses his lips immediately. 

“God, yes. Several.”

“Are you in tomorrow?” 

Morse shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Max takes his face in his hands and kisses him, once. His blood used to pound, but now it sings. “If you're sure. I’ll get the bottle. Put a record on, would you?”

“Of course.” Morse smiles. "I am." 

"What was that?" 

"I am sure."

* * *

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! happy new year :)


End file.
